


Courage

by kalypsobean



Category: Tales of Symphonia: Dawn of the New World
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-25
Updated: 2014-04-25
Packaged: 2018-01-20 17:39:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1519442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalypsobean/pseuds/kalypsobean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-canon, perfect ending fic. Emil gets sick and thinks it's just a side effect of Ratatosk, until he passes out and Marta has to take care of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Courage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NightsMistress](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NightsMistress/gifts).



It's so weird, not having Ratatosk inside him. He felt light, at first, when he was sealed away; suddenly everything was sharper, brighter, and he'd been so relieved to see Marta there, where they first met like she knew to wait for him, that he didn't question it, or anything. 

It's quiet, though, when everything else is, and he's sure Marta's starting to get tired of him again. First she wanted him to be something he wasn't, and then she accepted him, and now he's different, and all that extra space in his head that used to be for talking to Ratatosk, for fighting him and to let him take over, that's where the doubt is now. It's called doubt, he knows, because he heard Marta talking to Lloyd, once, and never said a word about it to her.

He doesn't know what he would have said, anyway, and in a world with so many firsts, he's not sure he even knows what the words are for the things he wanted to tell her, then.

 

He thinks it's just his body adjusting, becoming purely human rather than a vessel with human traits, when he reaches for words and finds they're not there, or his hands shake when he's trying to eat. Marta's cooking is more than passable now, not that he really knows the difference, but he doesn't taste any of it. _It's just that you're used to eating for two_ , he thinks, although it sounds a bit silly, and he keeps it to himself.

He thinks he used to tell Ratatosk these things, when they argued and even when they sorted out a truce, but he doesn't remember them happening before. 

 

Marta still keeps a diary; he thinks he should start one too, just so that all these things have a place to go, somewhere outside of him. He tried once, just after it all happened, but it was still too new, and he couldn't find the words, even then. He'll try again, just as soon as the world stops spinning.

 

"You're sick," Marta informs him, when he wakes up in bed. "Why didn't you tell me?"

 _I didn't know_ , he thinks, but when he tries to say it he only makes a croaking sound. His head is both full and empty and he's hot and cold.

Marta brings him food he's never had before, not the kind of thing they ate when they were tired after battle; it's bland and cool in his mouth, and she says it will make him better, even if he only has a little bit.

 _What do you see in me now?_ he wants to say. _Now that it's just me, and you don't have to stay?_ He falls asleep while she's taking the food away, and in his dreams Ratatosk is still there, but he's silent and there's a wall between them, clear as ice but as hard as a rock.

 

His head is less heavy the next time and he tries to sit, but Marta shushes him. He's in her room, he realises; he's never been in here before, and that's why it's so strange to him. She's barely decorated, as if she hasn't had time, and this feeling must be guilt, because he wonders if it's because she's spent so much time with him. She told him, once, that she didn't really have anyone else, and it was good for her to have some time to settle, but he wasn't sure he understood, even now.

She is pretty, though, and he notices it now, because this is the environment she made for herself and it fits her, orients around her in a way, and there's spaces left in it too, like inside him. Like for him, maybe; she hasn't noticed that he's watching her, or that her hair has fallen over her shoulder. He can only see part of her face, and he's not sure if she's smiling. Her hands are over his chest, not quite touching. _This is Marta concentrating_ , he thinks, and it's all aimed at him, into him. She leans back on her chair and looks over at him.

"I can't heal you the whole way," she says, sadly. He takes one of her hands in his, even though it's as much of an effort as sitting was just before, but she doesn't stop him this time. She's exhausted, like he is; he can see it in the way her skin is whiter than usual and shines just a bit when she turns her head to him. It's daytime, and that is the sunlight coming through the window, and he doesn't know how long he's slept.

"Thank you for trying," he says, and she smiles.

Maybe she does have a reason to stay.

 

He gets better quickly, and now he knows what it is to be sick, he knows the difference between what he thought was the absence of Ratatosk, and what was his half giving out. He tells her that when he apologises.

"Everybody gets sick," she says. "Now you're caught up."

"What else do I have to do?" he asks, and she won't tell him, saying that he has to find out for himself. She kisses him on the cheek and runs out of the house; she has a job now, and there's her father's trial to think of. He can't keep her forever, in this between-place where the world hasn't been completely altered, where she insists on showing her affection by keeping things the same as they were and he doesn't change it because he doesn't know how..

 

It doesn't take him long to bring what few belongings he has over from the inn and first he piles them up in the living room, then he spreads them out over the house, and then he brings them all back. He folds his clothes neatly and then he doesn't know what else to do, so he sits on the floor until Marta comes home. She has fresh vegetables because she promised to make him a casserole, because he's still healing, although he did say he feels fine now. 

"I'm sorry," he says, when she puts them on the table and sees her eyes widen. That means something, he knows, but he still isn't good at connecting actions with words, at least not the subtle ones. "I just have all this space in my head now and I don't know everything, and you have all this room, and I thought maybe you had a space too and we could work it out together." It doesn't sound quite like what he wanted to say, but she's there, hugging him before he can change the words around and make it sound more natural, more like what he feels and not something that gets twisted up and confuses even himself.

"Yes," she says, over and over, until his stomach makes itself known and she lets him go. "I have to make your welcome home meal," she says, as if it was something expected and familiar. For her, it probably is; he remembers how determined she was even when they met, and wonders if things could ever have been different.


End file.
